My Stupidness in Germany

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We are hours away from 1M infected.  Join me for a drink.  

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Hi racerken!

I don’t know how young you are but I’m 67 young- as is my good mate Tony in Hamburg, an English guy of my youthful age, who did the hippy thing in Afghanistan and all the rest of it.

When GoogleEarth came out, he did some research and called me excitedly one evening-

“ John, I have found exactly the field where I “ rolled one “ and then had a dumpez- vous.”

That was exactly where I had a shit.”

 

We two were not the Marine types!

🙏🏻
No fucking war and Vietnam and stuff like that.

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6 minutes ago, john g. said:

Hi racerken!

I don’t know how young you are but I’m 67 young- as is my good mate Tony in Hamburg, an English guy of my youthful age, who did the hippy thing in Afghanistan and all the rest of it.

When GoogleEarth came out, he did some research and called me excitedly one evening-

“ John, I have found exactly the field where I “ rolled one “ and then had a dumpez- vous.”

That was exactly where I had a shit.”

 

We two were not the Marine types!

🙏🏻
No fucking war and Vietnam and stuff like that.

Ha, I have a story of a friend your age(only 7 years my senior).  He was in Aghanistan backpacking and went into Iran or the other way around, I forget.  At the border, the guard asks him do you have any hashish.  He answers no, so the border guard gave him some hashish and said Welcome.  HA!

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The stories are quite entertaining and even if he's drunk when writing them, he comes across quite likeable. I'm presuming quite a lot of admirable works of art, have been produced while under the influence of whatever. The part with the monkeys shocked me, but it's obvious it shocked @racerken too. 

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Many years ago (in my 50s - I'm now 73) I wrote several essays depicting my childhood days from my earliest memories (2 to 11 years). I intended to continue writing about my teenage years, but never got round to it. At the same time I wrote a separate essay about my mother as I remembered her, also about my father. Remembering him was not easy as we all suffered greatly under him, but writing released a great deal of inner pressure. I was suffering from a midlife crisis and I was in therapy. Bad past memories catch up on you and you suffer depression. My essays helped me get things into perspective. I still have them and just recently read them again. There was also an essay about a woman I knew and liked at that time and had completely forgotten. I only knew her for a few months while taking part in a secretarial course. Everyone in the course liked her and encouraged her. She was very plain and had no real self-worth. Yet during those few months with us she transformed into a butterfly. And even landed a job in the Rathaus. The essay was quite descriptive and funny and last Christmas Eve I read it out loud to my daughter and teenage granddaughter. I kept laughing while reading and so did they. I'm glad I wrote that essay about her. 

 

What I'm trying to say is that @racerken is maybe doing something similar, in the process of coming to terms with the past albeit in a very entertaining way and sharing it all with us. 

 

 

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4 minutes ago, bramble said:

 

 

What I'm trying to say is that @racerken is maybe doing something similar, in the process of coming to terms with the past albeit in a very entertaining way and sharing it all with us. 

 

 

 

 

I did something like that right here on TT! Seeing the humour in these experiences helped a lot to process them. Some were pretty  horrible at the time, but looking back through the years and seeing myself as a character in a film helped me move past them and not bear any ill-will to anyone.

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Well, I’ve been in lockdown but working at the same time but during the idle time, I read and re-read your comments. 

Take away:

1.       I drink too much.  Yes, it’s true.  It makes me feel OK.

2.       I write when I’m drunk.  Yes, because I get emotional when I’m drunk.

3.       Definition:  I drink 1.5 bottle a day.

4.       I have regrets from the past.  Yes.  I never thought about it for decades. Drinking kills my past memory.

 

So I do what a smart person would do and call my friend at UCSF, PhD in some brain stuff…  My lab partner back in Junior High School.  She confirms I’m PTSD, an alcoholic, and in need of counseling.  In 5 minutes.  She also informed me that Bramble got it, ‘What I'm trying to say is that @racerken is maybe doing something similar, in the process of coming to terms with the past albeit in a very entertaining way and sharing it all with us.’.

Shit.  I re-read what I wrote and shed a tear for the monkeys but I didn’t for whatever was in that concrete housing unit with sat ant and smoke.  It could have been a power station.  Anyway, there was no confirmation of local presence.  ‘official report’.  I had my doubts because I had high gain optics and I clearly saw signs of life, i.e., tire marks in the mud (not dry), bikes, shoes, shit laying around…  For my own sanity I did not positively ID any headcount.  I know what you’re thinking, he knows!  AND that’s what bugs me to this fucking day.

*let’s put ourselves in their situation…  Who knows but these are my thoughts…. At least going thru my head and I analyze this every night.

I’m a farmer growing onions or rice.  I live a pretty good life living in a hutch with a fire place made of stones, a straw walled mansion at 5 x 5 sw meters for my wife, 3 daughters, a son, a grand mother.  Some guys drive up in a truck and offer an offer to allow them to live a life in a hard shelter made of concrete to withstand the monsoon, gun fire, habitat protection…  and a sat TV.  They went for it and became Opium farmers.  Now they watch MTV.  Then that’s the last thing they watched.

Or, a different start.  They invented this idea in the middle of know where because they knew the thirst of global narcotics revenues so they decided to become a regional employer, doing the local community good in providing local cash flow.  Kinda doubt this. But it’s a good defense.

 I do feel better because I now reduced the wine to 1.0 bottle.  Not easy.

 

So continuing…

We continue these types of missions and one day after 2 weeks, I guy in suit (in the fucking jungle) shows up and tells me that now I’m assigned to J2 which is intelligence and I’m like Faaaaack What?  I’m USAID.  Dick head informs me that I didn’t graduate from college so I lied on my application, federal crime, …..  I’m now assigned to the department of commerce with deployment to the department of interior.  I’m really laughing hard now.  OK, yeah, I never finished college which is another story.  So, he tells me about USC title 18 or something like that that I defrauded the US, illegally involved in US aid programs, ….  OK, so I accept, I’ll report to whomever you want.  (I’m thinking, they can’t send me out now because the entire campaign will crumble because I really know how to mark targets and I am totally integrated into the boots on the ground) So now I’m J2 but paid by department of commerce.  I call my Mom and she asked me if I’m working in business DEVELPMENT.  YeaH.

So now I officially enter all the strategic planning meetings but I’m never paying attention because at the end of day, just put a pin on the map I know what to do.

This one time, I decide that this is bullshit.  Remember you zap them and they don’t know what hit them – they are fucking gone.  No one knows what happened because we were ghosts.  Evil Ghosts.  This was such a perfect thing that we became famous.

Planes:  Air vehicles with payload capability.  The usual asset delivery platform was an A6 Intruder and in some situations a C 130 that just dropped a payload out the back.  Almost like an aid delivery on a pallet.   I will say that these pilots were very professional and were very concerned about civilian casualties so they sometimes managed to not hit the farm houses.  Ironic, but they were great at destroying ones’ lifes’ work but not killing the people that made it.  Some even radio’d back to assure their destruction did not affect the dwellings.  Word.  Those were good days.

Bad days: They used the farm house as point of impact and the prevailing spread of burn extended to cream the house and field, over kill.  They would warn us of the blast radius so we knew our safe points.

I’m stopping because I just realized that this is really messed up reality.  At the time, this is what I was thinking.  That’s just how it was.

 

My Black Jack consumption improved.  I was the hero of all the Marines and they even burned my civvies (jeans and whatever) and I wore the same uniform...  I was one of them.  They included me in all the poker games.  I kept writing their love letter home and I memorized all the names and addresses.  It was actually the best times of my life in terms of commeradarie.  I never had people that really cared for me.  Even today, I'm successful, got these hot cars, but no respect like those brothers.  They protected me whenever we were out on missions.  I was the Package.

Then J2 started calling me the Forward Deployed Target Designator.  My mother thought I was running accounting seminars in Asia and told me that I'm getting 200 more a month for special seminars.

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Then one day, I had this great idea, yes, I was drunk off of my ass.  I thought why don’t I warn these farmers and tell them when we will hit them so I can ASSURE their lives.

I tell the Marines that I’m faster alone because I’m light.  They are so fucking bored that they agreed.  They assign one guy that is a total loser, lowest guy on the list of mentality.  He’ll do whatever I tell him because he’s bubba from some farming community in Alabama, grew up in a shack… I basically controlled his relationship with his girlfriend by telling her that he thinks of her ever day, here are some thoughts of the day, this is what I want to share with you when I return, I love your letters, I think of you all the time….  She loves him by sending him like really explicit photos….  He even shared this with me in glee….  Man.

So we hump at 03:00 and arrive at about 05. I tell him to check the perimeter and he does, I visit the farm house and talk in Vietnamese (really messed up because I went to US schools on base in Vietnam) to tell this family of a father, a mother, a grand mother, 2 kids that his field of opium is going to vaporize in about 5 hours.  Fuck!  They knew of me and said that I was the ‘Asian Reaper of Death’.  WTF.  BTW, all the languages are pretty close so French can understand Spanish and Italians…..  Many words are similar.  Remember, I never disclosed that I can speak Viet….  That’s another story.  They get it and feed me a great meal!  I can’t believe it and they are bowing to me – I’m crying now.  They pack their shit and get out and they yell out to me, ‘People will know you’.  To this day, I don’t really know what that meant but they were at least smiling.  I get back to Bubba and he says ‘WTF, you warned them? You fucking gook?’  I said yeah, your family are farmers – what you say?  He nodded and said, ‘so you respect poor as farmers in Alabama?’  I said, ‘I respect anyone that works their land but I didn’t warn them, I just told them to move the fuck out and because I’m a scary dude, they did’.  He just nodded and then fucking hugged me gay like.

We called in the strike farm house and they flamed the entire location on my coordinates plus 100 meters.

So the next day in the morning, some farmers brought me some gifts life papaya, beer,  and some dope.

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1 hour ago, racerken said:

Well, I’ve been in lockdown but working at the same time but during the idle time, I read and re-read your comments. 

 

Take away:

 

1.       I drink too much.  Yes, it’s true.  It makes me feel OK.

 

2.       I write when I’m drunk.  Yes, because I get emotional when I’m drunk.

 

3.       Definition:  I drink 1.5 bottle a day.

 

4.       I have regrets from the past.  Yes.  I never thought about it for decades. Drinking kills my past memory.

 

 

 

 

 

May I ask ,1,5 bottles, of what?

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Your stories are great.  I really liked the part about what your mom thought you were doing.

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1 hour ago, racerken said:

Then one day, I had this great idea, yes, I was drunk off of my ass.  I thought why don’t I warn these farmers and tell them when we will hit them so I can ASSURE their lives.

 

I tell the Marines that I’m faster alone because I’m light.  They are so fucking bored that they agreed.  They assign one guy that is a total loser, lowest guy on the list of mentality.  He’ll do whatever I tell him because he’s bubba from some farming community in Alabama, grew up in a shack… I basically controlled his relationship with his girlfriend by telling her that he thinks of her ever day, here are some thoughts of the day, this is what I want to share with you when I return, I love your letters, I think of you all the time….  She loves him by sending him like really explicit photos….  He even shared this with me in glee….  Man.

 

So we hump at 03:00 and arrive at about 05. I tell him to check the perimeter and he does, I visit the farm house and talk in Vietnamese (really messed up because I went to US schools on base in Vietnam) to tell this family of a father, a mother, a grand mother, 2 kids that his field of opium is going to vaporize in about 5 hours.  Fuck!  They knew of me and said that I was the ‘Asian Reaper of Death’.  WTF.  BTW, all the languages are pretty close so French can understand Spanish and Italians…..  Many words are similar.  Remember, I never disclosed that I can speak Viet….  That’s another story.  They get it and feed me a great meal!  I can’t believe it and they are bowing to me – I’m crying now.  They pack their shit and get out and they yell out to me, ‘People will know you’.  To this day, I don’t really know what that meant but they were at least smiling.  I get back to Bubba and he says ‘WTF, you warned them? You fucking gook?’  I said yeah, your family are farmers – what you say?  He nodded and said, ‘so you respect poor as farmers in Alabama?’  I said, ‘I respect anyone that works their land but I didn’t warn them, I just told them to move the fuck out and because I’m a scary dude, they did’.  He just nodded and then fucking hugged me gay like.

 

We called in the strike farm house and they flamed the entire location on my coordinates plus 100 meters.

 

So the next day in the morning, some farmers brought me some gifts life papaya, beer,  and some dope.

 

Your writing style reminds me of Ernest Hemingway🙏🏻
You are truly entertaining! 
I called my first ever cat .. Hemingway! ( bless his soul ).

He was entertaining but didn’t smoke dope or speak Vietnamese!😂

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2 hours ago, LeonG said:

Your stories are great.  I really liked the part about what your mom thought you were doing.

 

Yes, reminds me of that book Don't Tell My Mom I Work on the Oil Rigs, She Thinks I'm a Piano Player in a Whorehouse. Something like that. Great book, btw.

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I drink Red Wine.  Now, it's Faustivo 2017.

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On 4/10/2020, 7:20:45, racerken said:

I’m stopping because I just realized that this is really messed up reality. 

 

I don't know if you've heard of Indymedia, but it was a platform created to cover the WTO in my hometown of Seattle in 1999.  The WTO, after the invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001 (I cried and had to go home early from work), the September 11, 2001 attacks in New York and the invasion of Iraq in 2003, was one of the most formative events of my life.  I was already politically engaged, cared too much, read EVERYTHING (to my detriment I might add) and was sad, angry, pissed the fuck off but mostly Over This Shit.  Toss in a couple of bullshit Bush "elections" and you've got one angry young Yank ready to jump ship, which I did after Dean was denied the nomination in 2004 and on election day Diebold voting machines were reported ON CNN to be calibrated to sway for Bush.  Another stolen election.  I packed my things and was gone by May 2005.

Anyway.  Seattle, where I am from, is home to a large VA hospital, where hundreds if not thousands of Vets are getting piss-poor or/but mostly NO treatment for their PTSD.  I have always taken an interest in the homeless (grew up poor in the projects, so this is not some sort of savior complex on my part, just genuine interest in the lives of my fellow humans)--sitting down to speak with or interview them.  In Seattle we have a lot of errrrrm... "active" crazies.  Some are veterans, some are down on their luck, almost all of them are addicts of one type or another.  But the Vets always broke my heart the most, specifically Vietnam Vets but I met a couple of "Iraqi Freedom" Vets who were around my age at the time and it was... dire.  That's all I could say.  They were like the Rocky Balboas of their day.  Just fucked up enough to make a lasting impression, finding the wrong things funny and for sure in 20 years' time would be shouting at light poles like the Vietnam Vets that came before them.

 

Anyway.  I was closely involved with the original IndyMedia on 3rd between Pike and Pine and at some point came into contact with the VVAWI--the Vietnam Veterans Against the War In Iraq.  I organized for them, protested with them and spoke publicly with and for them.  As a result of my heavy involvement and particular interest in them, they awarded me a title which to this day is my proudest achievement: they decorated me as an Honorary Veteran of the Vietnam War.  I was one of them.  Although I obviously wasn't.  They had lived through hell I don't wish on my worst enemy and the guys that were actually still functional enough to run the group were the lucky ones (i.e. not completely crippled by substance abuse and PTSD).

Alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll that to say: you don't ever need to stop because of messed up reality.  Your topic is in Personal Blogs.  You can write whatever you want here.  And I for one am particularly interested in it.  You know what fucked up the junkie Vets on the streets of my hometown more than anything else?  They had done these terrible things they couldn't escape from at night, and no one wanted to know about it.  The VA didn't help them.  Not even smack really helped them.  And so they fucking lost it.  I continue to be amazed that they contained the crazy as well as they did, all things considered.  But they had no one.  They weren't successful with cars and a business and a teeny tiny hardly-worth-mentioning 1,5 bottle a day habit. They were homeless junkies, but maybe, if they had had someone to talk to, they might not have been.

 

My point: you don't need to worry about talking about your messed-up reality here.  Do it.  I for one am entertained at the funny bits, enthralled by the dramatic bits and warmed by the personal bits.  And I am sure I am not the only one who values your contributions.  Please do continue.

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I agree, do continue and I am in awe of Dessa. I have a friend in Seattle who may have very well been involved in that same org or one like it.

 

I was a kid when boys were coming home in boxes or in a very bad way that no one talked about. Not that I would have understood it in that age. All I remember is that my brother didn't have to go. I had a friend, Marilou, whose brother did go and he came home with PTSD and just very fucked up. There was no help for him. He would sneak out of the house at night and crawl on his elbows and knees to a certain petrol station. They would call the cops and the cops would take him home.

 

Came to pass that when he was in Nam and on night patrol one night and scared as hell, he heard some rustling in the bushes. He opened fire. It was 3 small children. He was 19.

 

Nuff said.

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1 hour ago, dessa_dangerous said:

 

I don't know if you've heard of Indymedia, but it was a platform created to cover the WTO in my hometown of Seattle in 1999.  The WTO, after the invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001 (I cried and had to go home early from work), the September 11, 2001 attacks in New York and the invasion of Iraq in 2003, was one of the most formative events of my life.  I was already politically engaged, cared too much, read EVERYTHING (to my detriment I might add) and was sad, angry, pissed the fuck off but mostly Over This Shit.  Toss in a couple of bullshit Bush "elections" and you've got one angry young Yank ready to jump ship, which I did after Dean was denied the nomination in 2004 and on election day Diebold voting machines were reported ON CNN to be calibrated to sway for Bush.  Another stolen election.  I packed my things and was gone by May 2005.

Anyway.  Seattle, where I am from, is home to a large VA hospital, where hundreds if not thousands of Vets are getting piss-poor or/but mostly NO treatment for their PTSD.  I have always taken an interest in the homeless (grew up poor in the projects, so this is not some sort of savior complex on my part, just genuine interest in the lives of my fellow humans)--sitting down to speak with or interview them.  In Seattle we have a lot of errrrrm... "active" crazies.  Some are veterans, some are down on their luck, almost all of them are addicts of one type or another.  But the Vets always broke my heart the most, specifically Vietnam Vets but I met a couple of "Iraqi Freedom" Vets who were around my age at the time and it was... dire.  That's all I could say.  They were like the Rocky Balboas of their day.  Just fucked up enough to make a lasting impression, finding the wrong things funny and for sure in 20 years' time would be shouting at light poles like the Vietnam Vets that came before them.

 

Anyway.  I was closely involved with the original IndyMedia on 3rd between Pike and Pine and at some point came into contact with the VVAWI--the Vietnam Veterans Against the War In Iraq.  I organized for them, protested with them and spoke publicly with and for them.  As a result of my heavy involvement and particular interest in them, they awarded me a title which to this day is my proudest achievement: they decorated me as an Honorary Veteran of the Vietnam War.  I was one of them.  Although I obviously wasn't.  They had lived through hell I don't wish on my worst enemy and the guys that were actually still functional enough to run the group were the lucky ones (i.e. not completely crippled by substance abuse and PTSD).

Alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll that to say: you don't ever need to stop because of messed up reality.  Your topic is in Personal Blogs.  You can write whatever you want here.  And I for one am particularly interested in it.  You know what fucked up the junkie Vets on the streets of my hometown more than anything else?  They had done these terrible things they couldn't escape from at night, and no one wanted to know about it.  The VA didn't help them.  Not even smack really helped them.  And so they fucking lost it.  I continue to be amazed that they contained the crazy as well as they did, all things considered.  But they had no one.  They weren't successful with cars and a business and a teeny tiny hardly-worth-mentioning 1,5 bottle a day habit. They were homeless junkies, but maybe, if they had had someone to talk to, they might not have been.

 

My point: you don't need to worry about talking about your messed-up reality here.  Do it  I for one am entertained at the funny bits, enthralled by the dramatic bits and warmed by the personal bits.  And I am sure I am not the only one who values your contributions.  Please do continue.

Jeez, Dessa! I have always liked your way with words- now you have seriously impressed me with your background and toughness and , equally , compassion. 

Just wow.🙏🏻

 

 

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My father served in WWII on the British side as a pioneer. My German grandfather served on the German side in WWI at the East front. Both never (refused) spoke about their experiences. I see them with different eyes now, thanks to @racerken. Especially with respect to my father, who was seriously damaged mentally and an alcoholic. War veterans were never really taken care of psychologically in those days. I don't think the term PTSD was even heard of then. 

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31 minutes ago, bramble said:

 I don't think the term PTSD was even heard of then. 

 

Of course not, as you know I'm sure it was known as shell-shock and accepted as a consequence of having served in a war.  Did they realize that it was a non-reversible condition which would mess people up for the remainder of their lives?  Some of them remarkably short, considering how many resorted to suicide or alcoholism afterward?

 

Sue me, I can't remember the title, but one of the most powerful Trümmerfilm images I have in memory is of a guy who came home, and, being obviously changed, spent a lot of time staring at walls and talking to nothing.  It was a movie, so in the end, he shared the flat with the woman who had taken it over after his family had abandoned it and fell in love with her and lived happily ever after, and the actor who played the role was, well... an actor, so the gravity of the situation wasn't really captured.  Of course in that age when a man was a man and everyone maintained a stiff upper lip, collapsing in a heap in the corner and weeping for the dead and maimed on all sides wasn't done, and it's not now either.

 

It's no mistake the US military encourages soldiers to get married.  Otherwise, everyone would just shoot themselves on the battlefield.  War is hell.  Always has been, always will be.

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